


The Five Times Mark Darcy Swept Bridget Jones Off of Her Feet

by reindeerjumper



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kid Fic, Relationship Through the Years, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 04:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11395068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: Throughout their lives, Mark Darcy has swept Bridget Jones off of her feet approximately five times. These are those times.





	The Five Times Mark Darcy Swept Bridget Jones Off of Her Feet

**The First**

“For God’s sake, Bridget, get down from there!”

Pam Jones was striding across the Darcy’s back garden with death in her eyes. A young Mark watched as she approached the picnic table, where Pam’s daughter Bridget was now standing, her dress pulled up around her head so that her knickers were on full display for the whole party to see. He felt a bit mortified for the young girl--she clearly didn’t realize how much stress she was putting on her mother, on top of the fact that several of the adults were snickering at her behind their cocktail glasses. 

Despite the sympathetic tug his heartstrings gave, he still leveled a cool, indifferent gaze in the young girl’s direction. 

He watched as Mrs. Jones grabbed young Bridget’s hand and yanked her down from the picnic table in one swoop. The dress she had been holding up above her head quickly fell back down around her knees, and Mark watched as her pigtails flew out behind her. Pam sloppily placed her on her feet and ran her hands down the front of Bridget’s dress, valiantly trying to smooth out the wrinkles that seemed to have etched themselves there permanently. Even at this distance, Mark could hear Mrs. Jones hissing reprimands at the young girl, while Bridget blatantly ignored her.

Mark coughed into his hand uncomfortably, straightened the bow tie he was wearing, and decided to amble off to the dessert table. His mother was doling out slices of chocolate cake to the children that had gathered around the table, and her eyes sparkled when she glanced him among the group. 

“Hello, darling,” she said, running a hand through the curls on his head. “Are you having a good time?”

Mark gave her a smile, despite how awkward he felt amongst his peers. “I am, Mother. Thank you for throwing such a wonderful party.” 

“Of course, darling boy. Anything for your eighth birthday. ” She leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto the top of his head before returning to cake duty. “Would you like a slice?”

“Yes, please.”

Elaine Darcy cut a large slice of cake and place it on a plate for her son. She gave him an affectionate smile before giving the plate over to him. “Here you are, birthday boy." 

Mark blushed a little as he thanked her. He grabbed a fork from the table and made his way over to the picnic table where Bridget had been climbing only minutes before. He took a seat at one of the benches and started to tuck into the cake, silently watching all of the other party goers walk around his parents’ garden. 

It was only a matter of seconds before a pair of white patent leather mary janes invaded the space that his plate was occupying.

Slowly, Mark looked up from his cake to find Bridget once again standing on the table, looking down at him with confusion clouding her piercing blue eyes. 

“You eat cake like a grown-up,” she stated, wrinkling her nose as her fists clutched the sides of her dress.

Mark sputtered at her, gobsmacked over how abrupt and opinionated this child was. “I do not!” he replied. 

“Yeah, you do. All proper and fancy.”

Mark looked down at the cake in front of him, where he had meticulously sliced through the treat with the edge of his fork, leaving a perfectly straight line and barely any crumbs on the plate. His gaze traveled further to where he had carefully tucked his napkin into the collar of his button-down shirt, and he felt the heat of embarrassment creep into his cheeks. 

Bridget was now squatting in front of him, and Mark valiantly tried to avert his gaze from her since she had zero regard for the fact that her pants were on full display for the party to see. She was inspecting his cake with intent interest, her hands cupped around her knees as her pigtails fell forward and almost brushed the icing atop his slice. 

“Where’d you get it, anyway?” she asked him, raising her eyes to look at him. 

“Over there. My mother is handing it out.” Mark nodded his head over his shoulder in the direction where he had come from. Bridget now looked at him with a hint of wanting in her eyes, and Mark felt that tug at his heartstrings once again. “Would you like me to help you get a slice?” he said, his eyes softening as he watched the little girl’s eyes light up.

“Oh, goodie! Would you?” she said, standing straight up and clapping her hands.

“For goodness sake, be careful!” Mark shouted, holding his hands out on either side of as Bridget teetered on top of the table. “Here, let me help you down before you break something, or worse, upset your mother.” He reached out his arms in front of him, beckoning the younger child to allow him to help her down. 

Bridget’s face once again lit up as she realized what he wanted, and she practically leapt into his arms. Mark had to brace himself from falling over as his hands made contact with her underarms, and before he could even lower her to the ground, she was squealing, “Swing me, Mark! Swing me!” Exasperatedly, Mark kept his hands cupped under her arms as he swung her around twice, the flounce of her skirt spinning out around her and her pigtails flying with the momentum. Gently, he set her back down, and she looked up at him with awe and admiration.

“You’re  _ strong,”  _ she breathed, her eyes like two blue shooter marbles. 

“I’m just older,” he said matter-of-factly. “I  _ did _ just turn eight.” 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the attention from Bridget--having no siblings of his own, he wasn’t used to the wide-eyed admiration that younger children offered. With a smile, he stuck his hand out to her and said, “C’mon. Let’s go get you a slice before they’re all gone.”

Eagerly, Bridget took his hand and dragged him across the lawn.

* * *

 

**The Second**

“For God’s sake, Bridget, get down from there!”

How he ended up in this situation, he’d never know. The bass of the speaker was thumping against his skull as he watched his girlfriend drunkenly attempting to climb on the bar at the club she had dragged him to. A few other girls had somehow managed to wiggle their way past the other patrons and were now writhing and twisting to the beat that was pumping out of the speakers at the front of the club. The bartenders were getting their chuckles behind them as they snuck glances underneath their skirts, drying glasses and pouring drinks as if it was all just in a day’s work.

Mark could feel the heat rising under his collar as Bridget slung a leg up onto the bar. Valiantly, Mark tried to hold down her skirt as she did so, cursing under his breath and grinding his teeth in frustration. Bridget swatted his hand away, her other hand holding a vodka cranberry and an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. 

“You’re no fun!” she shouted over the noise, shooting daggers at him as he felt the heat rise in his cheeks. 

“You’re going to make a fool of yourself!” he shouted back. 

That was the last straw for Bridget. Mark could see her set her jaw in defiance before turning back around and pulling herself up onto the bar. She was on her belly, then her knees, and finally on her feet. He watched as she smoothed down the front of her outfit, the cigarette still hanging from her bottom lip and her glass primly hanging from her hand. He felt his own teeth grate together as he watched her. 

She gave him a wicked grin before she started dancing to the music. He tried incredibly hard to ignore the arousal he felt at watching her up on the bar, the long line of her leg muscles flexing with each gyration and her hair glittering in the lasers and uplighting. Mark knew he just had to succumb to the madness and let her have her fun. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last.

Instead of getting heated over Bridget’s lively spirit and ridiculous lack of embarrassment, Mark busied himself with shooting murderous death glares at the bartenders. One in particular--a smarmy looking jerk wearing a too-tight Hawaiian shirt with most of it unbuttoned--seemed to be the main culprit. He was constantly nudging his friends behind the bar and tilting his head in the direction of the girls on the bartop, a shit eating grin plastered on his face. His coworkers would laugh and shake their heads before sneaking a glance themselves. 

Mark wanted to punch him square in the jaw.

Soon, he noticed Mark staring at him. This was probably due to the fact that Mark was the only one standing still in the direct vicinity--everyone else was bustling about, grabbing drinks or placing orders, dancing with friends and laughing with dates. Mark, however, was standing stockstill amongst them, his jaw a strong, intimidating line as he glared at the bartender with venom in his eyes. The guy gave him a cheeky grin, and then had the audacity to _wink._ Mark felt his stomach tighten.   

Bridget was almost directly in front of this slob, her skirt threatening to inch up her thigh and disappear into her waistband. Mark’s hands unknowingly clenched into fists at his sides as he watched the bartender’s gaze fall on Bridget’s ankles. Slowly, he dragged his line of sight up her legs, lingered on the hem of her skirt, then traveled all the way to the top of her head. He bit his bottom lip, the grin on his face still taunting Mark from behind the bar.

Before the bartender even had a chance to nudge his friend, Mark had strode forward, pushing past drunken club goers. Bridget was still dancing, oblivious to what was going on between Mark and the bartender. The noise in the club was deafening--far too loud for Mark to effectively tell the bartender off--so he simply reached up, placed both hands on Bridget’s hips, and pulled her down from the bar and into his arms.

Bridget didn’t realize what was going on until a split second after it happened, and as Mark placed her on her feet in front of him, he flagrantly lifted his middle finger in the direction of the bar and mouthed  _ Fuck you _ to him. “We’re leaving,” Mark shouted into Bridget’s ear as he leaned down. “We’ll go to another bar. Don’t like the vibes here.”

Surprised, Bridget looked up at him and grinned. She stood up on her tippy toes and shouted into his ear, “Did you, Mark Darcy, just say we’re going to another bar?”

Rolling his eyes, Mark grabbed her wrist and dragged her through the crowd towards the exit. 

* * *

 

**The Third**

“For God’s sake, Mark, don’t stop.”

Mark had Bridget pressed up against a wall in her flat, his mouth hot and hungry against the pulse in her neck. The pads of his thumbs were running across the skin right above her waistband, teasing her to the point of incoherency.  He could feel her nails scraping along his scalp as he continued to kiss and nibble at her neck, the moans escaping her mouth vibrating against his lips. 

“You’ll have to pry me off with a crowbar, first,” he murmured against her skin, bringing his hands up to her hips. “You look bloody incredible in these knickers.” 

He had walked into her bedroom only moments before. He was looking for a tie that would better match his suit than the one that was hanging loosely from his neck. Bridget had been standing in front of her vanity, wearing just a pair of peach pink knickers with lace trim and a white camisole. It wasn’t as if Mark hadn’t seen her in her unmentionables before, but there was something about the way she was standing--the bottom of one foot pressing into the knee of the other leg, her hands bracing her against the vanity as she absentmindedly flipped through a tabloid--that sparked something low in his gut. Without even thinking, he had crossed the floor and grabbed her hips, trailing gentle, soft kisses along the slope of her shoulders. 

Of course, this had escalated into the situation they were currently in. It wasn’t long before Bridget had turned around in his embrace to claim his mouth with her own. The heat of her breath against his ear as she panted out his name sent a shock straight to his core, and he knew that there was no way he’d be able to go to work and be coherent for the rest of the day if he didn’t take care of this pressing matter  _ immediately. _

Hooking his thumbs into the elastic waistband of her knickers, he gave them a tug until they were settled somewhere mid-thigh. In response, Bridget began to fumble with the fly of his trousers, her mouth still hungrily exploring his. He let out a groan as she finally freed him from the confines of his pants and boxers, taking his member into her hand and sliding it up and down a few times.

“Take them off all the way,” he panted into her mouth. He felt Bridget squirm against him before breaking the kiss apart to push her panties all the way off. She gave them a graceful kick across the room before looking into Mark’s eyes and giving him a cheeky smirk. 

Mark lunged at her, grabbing her by the hips and lifting her straight up into the air. Bridget let out a delicious laugh, throwing her arms around his neck and bringing her legs up around his waist. Mark shuffled towards the wall, his pants haphazardly tying his legs together as he held the soft weight of Bridget’s body in his arms. Her thighs pressed against his hips as he bit down on her collarbone. She gasped, digging her fingernails into his shoulderblades.

Using the wall as leverage, Mark used a free hand to guide himself into Bridget. They both let out a breathy sound of pleasure as they came into contact with each other, and Mark thrusted forward. Bridget’s head rolled forward, and he could feel her forehead now resting against the crisp white cotton of the shirt he was wearing. Her breath was hot against the fabric, creating condensation on the skin of his chest as he continued to buck his hips against hers. 

As Mark chased his high with reckless abandon, his breath became more ragged against the curve of Bridget’s neck. His thighs were on fire as he held her weight against the wall, and he relished the way her legs clung to him as her fingernails dug into his back. The more he thrusted, the more the bottles on Bridget’s vanity rattled. The few picture frames that hung on the wall thumped enthusiastically against the plaster, and Mark could give two fucks about what the neighbors thought.

Soon, Bridget’s orgasm erupted against his shoulder in a loud exclamation of his name. Her legs stiffened around his waist as she panted incoherencies against his chest. Before the muscles in her thighs could melt away into post-coital goo, Mark’s hips stuttered as his own orgasm crested. He buried his head into Bridget’s neck, his fingertips digging into the meat of her thighs as he pressed her against the wall to avoid dropping her. 

They stood like that, their breathing heavy and labored. Mark slowly pulled back to look at Bridget, and she grinned at him. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed in a way that could only be described as “properly fucked”. 

“God, you’re amazing,” she breathed before leaning forward to claim his mouth.

* * *

 

**The Fourth**

_ For fuck’s sake, what was I thinking? _

Mark could feel his legs giving out beneath him and the breath in his lungs stabbing him in the chest. A nine-month pregnant Bridget sat cradled in his arms, and although Mark had never considered himself out of shape, he was now cursing himself for being so bloody galant. 

They had been standing on the sidewalk, Bridget in labor and clearly unable to walk to the hospital. High on endorphins and the prospect of meeting his child, Mark had swept Bridget up into his arms. He had made it only a block before he thought he might die. 

There was no way that his pain was anywhere near the pain that Bridget was currently embroiled in, but he truly felt as if his lung was collapsing in on itself. It wasn’t the first time Mark had carried Bridget--if he were a prouder man, he would’ve been able to count the exact number of times he had whisked her off to bed over his shoulder, his hand palming her arse cheek as he went--but this was entirely different. This was Bridget’s tiny frame with extra weight packed on, along with the growing human inside of her. 

And, if Mark were to be honest with himself, he was no longer the spring chicken of yesteryear. 

As he trudged along the sidewalks of London, he couldn’t help feeling thankful for the predicament he had gotten himself into. Sure, it wasn’t ideal, but it involved Bridget being in his arms, and any beautiful memory Mark had usually started that same way. Even as she writhed and moaned in his arms, his heart felt full at the weight of her against him. 

It was funny the turn the night had taken...it had started off like a fever dream, fifteen years prior. He was approaching her flat in the rain, hands shoved in his pockets and the intent to declare his love for her on the tip of his tongue. What he hadn’t expected to find was Bridget sitting in a pile of cardboard boxes, soaked to the bone and bereft. 

One awkward meeting, one instance of breaking and entering, one cell phone chucked out the window, and one soaked pair of trousers later left Mark Darcy not having to make any sentimental declarations. Once the baby was here, he’d finish the speech he had started in her apartment...the one where he’d tell her he still loved her and always would. He’d do it in the moment now, but, well, his lung was collapsing. 

He’d need that lung if he was ever going to get her to hospital.  


* * *

**The Fifth**

“For fuck’s sake, I’m exhausted.”

Bridget trudged next to Mark, her high heels in one hand and the train of her dress trailing behind her. Her veil was a forgotten memory, and the demure bolero that she had worn in church was completely gone. The soft glow of collarbone was begging to be kissed. Mark’s tie was loosened around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone, and his suit jacket open. The boutonniere that was pinned to his lapel was starting to wilt, and he was dying to kick off his shoes and collapse into bed with his wife.

_His wife._  

Mark glanced over in Bridget’s direction as they continued down the hallway of the house they were staying in. Most of the wedding guests had either turned in or were still dancing the night away in the tent outside. The reception had been going on for hours, and Mark had danced more in the past few hours than he probably had in his entire life. He had been completely incapable of keeping his hands off of Bridget, and dancing with her was the easiest way to fulfill that need.  

He still couldn’t believe that they were finally married. 

Sensing the weight of his gaze on her, Bridget looked in his direction and gave him a smile. Mark felt happiness bloom in his chest as grinned back at her. Somewhere in the distance between them, Mark’s hand found hers and entwined their fingers together. Bridget gave his hand an appreciative squeeze, and Mark felt his breath catch in his throat at the rub of his wedding band against her fingers. 

It wasn’t the first time Mark had worn a wedding band. There had been his first wife, and even though they had only been married for the briefest of interludes, Mark had enjoyed the slight weight of the ring on his finger. He had grown accustomed to being someone’s partner, and the band of gold--or in the case of his first marriage, platinum--was something he took pride in whenever it caught his eye. It had been the same with Camilla, at least until it all went to shit. 

This, though, was something entirely different. It was satisfying. The pride he felt was all-encompassing. He had no intention of ever taking it off, not even to sleep. He grinned again as he brought her hand up to his mouth, pressing the back of her hand to his smile. She smiled back before bumping into him with her shoulder playfully. 

As they approached the door of their room, Mark stopped abruptly. Bridget stopped next to him, confusion marring her perfect features. 

“Mark? What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Well, we’re married now,” he replied.

“Derrr,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

Mark tried to arrange his features into a look of stony consternation, but failed miserably. He just couldn’t keep the smile off of his face. He pulled the key out of the pocket of his jacket and slid it into the lock. Turning the key along with the knob, he pushed the door open. Bridget started to go for the entrance, but Mark abruptly stopped her by grasping her forearm.

“Mark, what’s wrong?” she said, turning back towards him. 

“We’re married now,” he reiterated. She continued to look at him as if he were speaking gibberish. “You can’t just  _ walk _ into the room,” Mark went on. “I have to carry you over the threshold.”

At this, Bridget beamed.

She threw her shoes into the room ahead of her and slid her arms around Mark’s neck. Instinctively, Mark’s hands immediately found Bridget’s waist. Going up on her tiptoes, Bridget placed a kiss against Mark’s smile, which he enthusiastically returned. The kiss broke apart, and Mark leaned his forehead against hers. 

“Well, Mr. Darcy?” she murmured. “Are you going to get on with it or not? I’d like to shag my husband into wedded oblivion sometime soon.”

Mark grinned before crouching down to place an arm behind Bridget’s knees. He lifted her off of the ground, claiming her mouth with his own as he crossed over the threshold of the room. It took three strides before Mark’s knees bumped against the mattress of their king-sized bed and he gently placed Bridget on the duvet. She fell back with a laugh, her arms above her head and her face lit up with a megawatt grin. Taking the hook of his pointer finger, Mark divested himself of his necktie, slid off his suit jacket, and braced both hands next to Bridget’s head.

“Well, Mrs. Darcy? What do you say?”

It was only a matter of minutes before Bridget got her wish. 


End file.
